Requiem (10 page)

My Guest raised his glass. Let’s drink a toast, he said. Right, I said, to what? To the
next century, he said, you’re going to need all the luck you can get, this was my
century and I felt at home in it, but you might have some problems in the next one.
Who’s “you”?, I asked. The people alive now, he replied, you
fin-de-siècle people. We’ve already got masses of problems, I said, we really
need a toast. I’d also like to drink to
saudosismo
,
²
said my Guest, raising his glass again, I miss poor old
saudosismo
, there are no
saudosistas
left, Portugal’s become so very
European. But you’re European, I said, you’re the most European writer of the
twentieth century, I’m sorry, but you’re the last person who should say such
things. But I never left Lisbon, he said, I never left Portugal, oh, I liked Europe, but only
as an idea, I sent other people off to Europe: one friend to England, another to Paris, but
not me, I stayed put in my aunt’s house. It was comfortable, I said, very comfortable.
That’s right, he went on, perhaps I’ve always been a bit of a coward, do you know
what I mean?, but I’ll tell you something, cowardice produced some of the bravest
writing of the century, for example, that Czech writer who wrote in German, I can’t
remember his name just now, but don’t you think he wrote some extraordinarily brave
things? Kafka, I said, his name was Kafka. That’s right, my Guest said, and yet he was a
bit of a coward too. He took a sip of wine and went on: There’s something cowardly about
his diary, but what courage he had to write that magnificent book of his, you know, the one
about guilt.
The Trial
?, I asked, is that the one you mean? Of course, he said, the
most courageous book of the century, he has the courage to say that we are all guilty. Guilty
of what?, I asked. I don’t know, he said, of being born, perhaps, and of what happens
afterwards, we’re all guilty.

Mariazinha came over wearing a luminous smile, his powder was beginning to melt slightly in
the heat, but his expression remained ingratiating. Right,
caballeros,
he said,
I’m going to tell you what the menu of the day is, it’s a poetic menu, but then
nouvelle cuisine
demands poetry, as a starter we have soup
Amor de
Perdição
and salad
Fernão Mendes Pinto
, what do you
think? The names are certainly picturesque, I said, but you’ll have to explain what they
mean. Right, said Mariazinha, the soup is a coriander soup made with lots of coriander and
chicken giblets. The salad is an exotic mix of avocado, prawns and bean sprouts.
Am I also
to blame for “nouvelle cuisine”?,
asked my Guest,
I’m not
responsible for those horrible names.
No, I said, you’re absolutely right,
nouvelle cuisine
is a quite separate horror. Does your friend
only
speak
English?, Mariazinha interrupted, what a bore! And what do you have as a main dish?, I asked.
Now let me see, said Mariazinha, we have sea bass
trágico-marítimo
³
sole
interseccionista
, Gafeira eels
à moda do Delftm
and cod
escárnio e mal-dizer
. My Guest
raised one eyebrow and whispered:
Ask him how the sole is cooked
. I asked and
Mariazinha looked slightly irritated. It’s stuffed with ham, he said, that’s why
it’s called
interseccionista
, because it’s made from fish and meat. My
Guest smiled ironically and nodded. And what about the eels
à moda do Delfim
,
I asked, how are they served? They’re cooked in
moira
, said Mariazinha,
it’s a speciality of the house. I don’t know what that is, I said, can you
explain? Look, said Mariazinha, you know what
caldeirada
is, a sort of fish stew,
right?, well
moira
is the stock you get from the
caldeirada
, I’ll tell
you how it’s made, you cut the fat off the eels and add coarse salt and vinegar to it.
Then this mixture, which is very tasty, is added to the stewed eels themselves, it’s
more or less the same as eels
à moda da Murtosa
, only more refined,
that’s why we call it Gafeira eels
à moda do Delfim
. But Gafeira
doesn’t exist, I said, it’s an imaginary place, a literary place. That
doesn’t matter, said Mariazinha, Portugal’s full of lakes, you can always find a
Gafeira. I’ll have that then, I said, but only a half-portion, just to get an idea.

Mariazinha left and my Guest filled our glasses again. This place is incredible, he said.
Forgive me changing the subject, I said, but I’d like you to tell me about your
childhood, it really intrigues me. My childhood?, exclaimed my Guest, I’ve never talked
to anyone about my childhood and we’re not going to talk about it now at supper. Go on,
I said, tell me, it’s the most mysterious part of your life, this is the first and last
time we’ll meet, I don’t want to miss the opportunity. Look, said my Guest, I had
a happy childhood, really. It’s true my father died, but I hardly noticed it, I found
another father, he was a good, silent man, he wasn’t a father exactly, more of a symbol,
and it’s good to live with symbols. And what about your mother?, I asked, you were very
close to her, your critics, or some of them at least, even suggest you had some sort of
Oedipus complex. What!, said my Guest, I had a perfectly straightforward relationship with
her, my mother was a simple person, she had no concept of pretence, look, I let people think I
had a mysterious childhood by completely eliminating it from my writing, but it’s all
nonsense, really, it was just to put the critics off the scent, they’re such busybodies,
and so I set traps for them beforehand. You’re a liar, I said, an utter liar, you may
have deceived your critics, but you’re not going to deceive me as well, you’re not
being honest with me. Look, he said, I’m not honest in the sense you mean, the only
emotions I experience are in the form of genuine pretence, I consider your kind of honesty a
form of poverty, the supreme truth is to pretend, I’ve always believed that.
You’re exaggerating, I said, now you’re a liar twice over, isn’t that right?
Yes, that’s right, replied my Guest, the important thing is to feel. Exactly, I said, I
was always convinced that you did in fact feel everything, indeed I always thought that you
felt things normal people couldn’t feel, I always believed in your occult powers,
you’re a sorcerer, and that’s why I’m here and why I’ve had the day
I’ve had. And are you pleased with the day you’ve had?, he asked. I don’t
quite know how to put it, I said, but I feel quieter, lighter. That’s what you needed,
he said. I’m very grateful to you, I replied.

Mariazinha arrived with the soup. It turned out to be a very traditional coriander soup,
nouvelle cuisine
had invented nothing but the name. My Guest nodded and said: I
would never have thought you could eat so well in Alcantara, in my day there were no
restaurants in this area at all, just cheap bars serving boiled cod. That’s Europe for
you, I said, the European influence. When I was alive, said my Guest, Europe was something
remote, far off, it was a dream. Did you dream about it a lot?, I asked. No, he said, not
much, but my friend Mário did, he dreamed about it all the time, but he suffered a
terrible disenchantment, I, as you know, preferred to go to Rossio station and wait for the
trains to arrive from Paris, in those days the Paris train came in at Rossio, what I liked
most was reading about the journey on other people’s faces. Yes, I said, you always did
like to delegate. And you don’t?, asked my Guest. Yes, I do it too, I replied,
you’re right.

The next course arrived and we began to eat. I glanced questioningly at my Guest and he
responded with a neutral look. How’s the sole
interseccionista
?, I asked. He
shook his head. As you said about Futurism, he replied, it’s a bit vulgar. But it looks
good, I said. Oh, it’s excellent, he said, that’s what lends it its slight
vulgarity.

We ate in silence. The sound of muffled music filled the room, piano music, Liszt perhaps. At
least the music’s good, I said. I don’t like music, said my Guest, I never did.
That surprises me, I said, it really does. I only like popular music, he went on, waltzes and
things like that, but I do like Viana da Mota, don’t you? I do, I said, he’s a bit
like Liszt, don’t you think? Maybe, he said, but he’s very Portuguese.

Mariazinha came to clear away the plates. He gave a list of desserts with bizarre-sounding
names, but my Guest seemed unenthusiastic. Your friend’s depressed, said Mariazinha, he
looks so gloomy, poor thing, he’s English, isn’t he? I’ve already told you,
I exclaimed, in a slightly irritated voice, he’s Portuguese but he just happens to like
speaking English. No need to get angry,
caballero,
said Mariazinha, and removed the
plates.

You look tired, said my Guest, would you like to go for a little walk? I could do with some
air, I said, it’s been a long day, endless. I called Mariazinha over and asked for the
bill. Let me pay, said my Guest. Certainly not, I protested, the restaurant was my idea, and
besides I’ve been carefully saving my money all day just so that I could pay for this
meal, so, please, don’t insist. Mariazinha blew out the candle on the table and
accompanied us to the door.
Hasta la vista, caballeros
, he said,
gracias y buenas
noches. Goodbye, sir
, said my Guest.

We crossed the road and walked past the harbour station. I’m going to walk as far as
the end of the quay, said my Guest, won’t you come with me? Of course I will, I said. By
the door to the harbour station was a beggar, with an accordion round his neck. When he saw
us, he held out his hand and recited some incomprehensible litany of complaints. At the end of
it all he murmured: God bless you, gentlemen, can you spare any change? My Guest stopped and
thrust his hand into his pocket, pulled out his wallet and removed an ancient note. I’ve
only got old money, he said, looking concerned, perhaps you can help me out. I felt in my
pocket and pulled out a one hundred
escudo
note. It’s all the money I have
left, I said, I’m cleaned out, but it’s a nice note, don’t you think? He
looked at it and smiled. He held out the note to the Accordionist and asked: Do you know any
of the old songs? I know “Old Lisbon”, said the Accordionist eagerly, I know all
the
fados
. No, older than that, said my Guest, something from the 1930s, you must
remember, you’re not a young man yourself. I might know it, said the Accordionist, tell
me what you’d like to hear. How about “Your eyes are so lovely”?, said my
Guest. Oh, I know that one, said the Accordionist happily, I know it very well. My Guest
handed him the hundred
escudo
note and said: Walk a few yards behind us will you, and
play that tune for us, but quietly because we have to talk. He assumed a confidential air and
whispered in my ear: I once danced to this tune with my girlfriend, but no one knows that. You
used to dance?, I exclaimed, I would never have thought it. I was an excellent dancer, he
said, I taught myself from a little book called
The Modern Dancer
, I always liked
books like that, ones that taught you how to do things, I used to practise at night when I got
home from work, I used to dance on my own and write poems and letters to my girlfriend. You
were really fond of her, I said. She was the clockwork train of my heart, he replied. He
stopped walking and made me stop too. The Accordionist stopped as well, but went on playing.
Look at the moon, said my Guest, it’s the same moon my girlfriend and I used to look up
at when we went for a stroll to Poço do Bispo, isn’t that odd?

We’d reached the end of the quay. Right, he said, we met on this bench and we’ll
say goodbye on this bench, you must be tired, you can tell the old man to go away now. He sat
down and I went to tell the Accordionist that we no longer needed his music. The old man
wished me good night. I turned round and only then did I realise that my Guest had
vanished.

The garden was plunged in silence, a cool breeze
had got up, it caressed the mulberry leaves. Good night, I said, or rather, goodbye. Who or
what was I saying goodbye to? I didn’t really know, but that was what I felt like
saying, out loud. Goodbye and goodnight to you all, í said again. Then I leaned my head
back and looked up at the moon.

¹
António Botto
(1897—1959), aesthete and poet. He was the author of the poems
Canções
(Songs)
(1921), which caused a scandal in Portugal because of their blatantly
homosexual content.

²
A philosophical-political movement,
mystical and nationalistic in character, founded by the poet Teixeira de Pascoaes in the first
decade of the twentieth century. Its name comes from the word
saudade
, which
describes the melancholic nostalgia one feels for people, things, pleasures and times now
lost.

³
See Note on Recipes, page 109